


not a place but a moment

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “How did I get here?” he breaks the silence with an obvious question.“I found you on my doorstep. You were hurt and bleeding. I removed the bullet from your wound and applied stitches.”





	

Hannibal’s head rests on a soft pillow. A well-known scent fills the air. His eyes open and fall upon a woman standing at the foot of the bed. Bedelia.

“Hello, Hannibal,” her voice betrays no emotion, nor does her face. Is she angry, scared, or _relieved_? He does not know. A tinniest bird of hope perches in his heart. It is unusual, an emotion he is not familiar with.

Hannibal takes in his surroundings, he knows the house, but not this room. Bedelia’s house, the guest bedroom. The bird in his chest becomes still.

“How did I get here?” he breaks the silence with an obvious question. Yet he truly does not remember his arrival here.

“I found you on my doorstep. You were hurt and bleeding. I removed the bullet from your wound and applied stitches.”

Hannibal only now notices the neat bandages around his waist.

“You were unconscious for a day,” she adds, her face still indecipherable.

“You need to rest. There is water on the night stand. I will prepare some food.” She leaves the room before he gets a chance to respond.

Hannibal falls asleep again and does not hear her come back.

The following morning, she brings him breakfast and a change of clothes. She leaves them on a chair and neither of them comment on their origin. A reminiscence of old times, when he spent a night here at times. She kept them all these years.

Bedelia sits down next to him and examines the dressing. Her eyes are focused on the bandages and she does not look up. His remain fixed on her, drinking in the sight he had been denied for some many years.

“I cannot stay here long,” he breaks the stillness, “they will be looking for me.”

“Jack Crawford has been here already,” she says, meeting his eyes.

At once, Hannibal’s mind becomes alert and his senses sharpen.

“I send him away,” she continues, noticing his tension, “My business with him concluded a long time ago. I have no use for him anymore.”

There is a soft flutter in his heart.

“The risk remains. I will need to leave soon,” he reaches over and gently touches her hand,” I would like you to accompany me.”

“To what end?” Bedelia looks at him, her face no longer a mask of composure. She recalls her return from Florence. It should had been victorious. She left unscathed and protected by the FBI. Yet her life was even more of an illusion than it was before. She strove to ignore the empty space in her heart.

She withdraws her hand and stands up abruptly.

“Why did you come here, Hannibal?” she asks sharply.

Hannibal says nothing. Bedelia is turning away when he finally speaks.

“Please stay with me tonight,” his voice is soft, barely a whisper.

With her back turned, she does not respond and leaves.

Much later, Bedelia stands in the hallway, gazing between two doors. Finally, she chooses the one leading to the guest bedroom. Hannibal is already asleep. She lays down quietly on the other side of the bed and falls asleep as well.

She wakes up to strong forearms wrapped tightly around her rib cage.

He holds her close as if he was a drowning man and she was his only rescue. A fitting metaphor, Bedelia thinks. She considers pushing his arm away, the resentment still fresh in her mind. But she doesn’t; she longed for his embrace, even if she had never allowed herself to dwell on it. She eases into his clasp and drifts back to sleep.

When she wakes up again, the bed is empty. She finds Hannibal in the kitchen.

He welcomes her with a smile and offers her a cup of coffee, a cappuccino with a sprinkle of nutmeg, her favourite. He remembered.

“Thank you,” she tastes the coffee, it’s perfect, “But you should be resting.”

“I feel fine,” he says with reassurance.

“If your wound starts bleeding again, you will need to go to a hospital.”

She walks over to him and places a gentle hand on his arm as if to persuade him.

“You are always looking after me, Doctor,” Hannibal gazes at her with affection. He does not argue and returns upstairs.

Later that day, she finds him sitting in her office, in his usual chair.

The chair that is hers now. She does not know what drove her to alter the sitting arrangement. Perhaps she did not want to see it being occupied by another person. She used to reject such displays of sentimentality and look at her now.

She walks to the other side of the room, but does not take her old spot. He is no longer her patient; those lines had blurred and vanished somewhere between the sheets in Florence. Her fingers brush over the top of a chair and she turns to face him.

“Is there something you would like to talk about?” she falls back into her professional tone of voice with ease.

“No,” he replies, “You are not my therapist, Bedelia.”

A shiver passes down her spine at the sound of her name leaving his lips.

“Did Will Graham visit you?”

The quiver subsides, her gaze turns to ice.

“Tuesdays at 4 pm.”

Hannibal grins at the thought. “I am sure your therapy was more _successful_ than mine.”

“It could have been, but I had not anticipated the depths of his _recklessness_. Where is Will?” she finally voices the question that has been suspended between them.

“Dead, I presume.”

“You do not know?” Bedelia looks at him with wariness.

“I made it to the shore. He did not. I have not waited to see what happened to him.”

Bedelia walks back to the front of the room.

“Did you not try to save him?” she asks as she is passing by his chair.

“No, why would I?” his eyes follow her as she continues to walk away, “I should have ended this relationship a long time ago. You were right.”

The words make Bedelia stop. Instead of leaving, she takes a seat on the couch.

“You were trying to save me, mostly from myself,” Hannibal gets up and joins her on the couch.

She draws a sharp breath when he rests his head on her lap. Yet her hand goes to stroke his cheek. How easily they fall back into their old habits, Bedelia ponders, recalling all their evenings in Florence.

Hannibal closes his eyes, relishing the moment.

“There was only one thing I desired after surviving the fall,” he opens his eyes and meets hers,” I wanted to go home.”

They look at each other silently. Hannibal savours her touch.

Bedelia does not remove her hand, but leans down, her lips meeting his. He kisses her back, his hand in her hair, his mouth lingering on hers, as if afraid the kiss will end too soon. Like their last one, but this time, it does not.

Finally, they pause for breath and his eyes look up at her fervently. His lips begin to move along the line of her jaw. They shouldn’t, she thinks, he is injured. But as she is about to speak, his mouth finds the sensitive spot on her neck and the only thing that leaves her lips is a soft moan.

They leave the couch and she guides him upstairs. To her bedroom.

She can tell he is trying to restrain himself; his touch unhurried, despite the lust in his eyes. Until she sinks her teeth in his neck, then shoulder and pushes him down on the bed.

The reunion of their bodies is rushed and needy, a frenzy of skin against skin, limb against limb.

She comes with his name on her lips. Her head falls back and her body trembles as waves of pleasure crash over her. His hands dig deeper into her hips, pulling her closer. Her name escapes his lips, his head nestled between her breasts.

They hold each other in the afterglow, reluctant to part.

She tasted as exquisite as he remembered. He felt as good as she remembered.

No words are spoken, they fall asleep together.

A soft brush of lips on her shoulder wakes her up. She stirs and sighs, as his lips move to her ear.

“I had a recurring dream. It was always the same. I was holding you in my arms, in our bed in Florence, “his warm breath caresses her skin, “but then I would wake up and you were gone.”

Pressing his face into the hollow between her shoulder and neck, he inhales the scent of her.

She turns around to face him, not leaving his embrace.

“Where will we go?” she strokes the stubble on his chin.

“Anywhere we want. Anywhere you want. It does not matter as long as you are there with me.”

Bedelia presses her small body against his and kisses him deeply.

For the two of them, home isn’t a place. It is a person. And there were finally home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The last sentence is based on a quote by Stephanie Perkins. This is the season 4 I want. I really loved writing these post-finale fics and hope you still enjoy reading them.
> 
> For more bedannibal, find me at tumblr as bedeliainwonderland.


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